


Fandango

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens
Genre: American History, M/M, Old West, cartoon violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-25
Updated: 2004-10-25
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:46:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: If evil exists, it's a pair of train tracks. (The New Mexico Territory, 1874)





	Fandango

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to [A Fistful of Feathers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12942369).

Aziraphale threw back another shot of bourbon, leaning his cheek against his palm. It was his forth, and though his disgust at drinking such amounts of a boot-barrel distillery concoction had subsided, he found the clouded, greasy fingerprints on the glass itself to be increasingly appalling. He narrowed his eyes, turning towards Crowley. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Do you see him?”

Crowley arched a brow, setting his own drink down. “Who?”

“Your young man,” the angel chirped with a conspiratorial wink.

“Oh.” Crowley glanced slowly around the room, a sly movement that was just barely visible, even to Aziraphale. “Not as such.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale pushed the glass forward, folding his hands before him. He quickly darted his tongue over his lips, considering his words. “D’you suppose he’ll be a rough sort of person?”

“Most likely.”

“I see,” the angel conceded.

Crowley slid down from his stool with a low laugh. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Aziraphale nodded, dropping his gaze and refilling his glass with a sigh. Someone wound the player piano once more, triggering its noxiously intoxicating tune. He shuddered inconspicuously and soon there was a soft movement to his side. Smiling, he prepared a quip relating to Crowley’s quick return, though paused as he soon heard the scrabbling clank of boots against bare boards, spurs tapping as they were raised to iron bars. He was careful to not turn as he busied himself by straightening his cuffs.

“I haven’t seen you around here before, have I?” a husky, rustic voice asked by his side.

“Ah,” Aziraphale began, glancing out of the corner of his eye to the man who was now seated beside him. He wore a dark leather jacket, frayed and faded at the edges, and his hair was strewn across his brow in limp strands; a two-day beard covered much of his ruddy, weathered face. There was dirt under his fingernails. Aziraphale frowned. “No, I don’t see how you could have.”

“Right,” the man said, leaning over the bar top. He pushed the wide brim of his hat back, extending his hand towards the angel with a crooked smile. “Name’s Sandy. And you are?”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Aziraphale replied, glancing down at the other’s mud-flaked palm. He then stood with an awkward shuffling of legs and feet, glancing around the saloon for Crowley.

“Leaving so soon?” Sandy asked, his fingertips brushing against Aziraphale’s sleeve. “How ‘bout a game of cards -- you play poker, yeah?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly...”

“Sure you could.” Sandy’s eyes lightly traced over Aziraphale’s form. “That’s some crazy looking get-up you’ve got there, pal. You must’ve fallen straight off of the Emperor’s caravan, am I right?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, stricken. “I’m waiting for someone, you see. He’ll be returning in a momen--”

“Just sit in for a round. No worries.”

“Well, I... I suppose one game wouldn’t hurt.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sandy said, grinning. He slapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. “Come along, then.”

“I must warn you, though... I’ve not played before in any real capacity. Truthfully, I--”

Sandy winked, cutting him off as he repeated, “No worries.”

“Oh.”

Aziraphale folded his hands before him as he followed Sandy to a dim, grimy corner where several men were lounging over a bottle of whiskey. They glanced up, eyeing the newcomer with an irked, exhausted suspicion.

“Okay boys, Prince Charming here is going to take Mick’s place,” Sandy roared as he pushed Aziraphale into a chair. He leaned forward, smiling slyly. “Mick was kicked in the head by his old mule last night. Isn’t that right, boys?”

There was a clamor of heady, lewd laughter.

“Aye, and he was tied to the railroad tracks the night before,” someone scoffed.

“Good heavens,” Aziraphale said under his breath, coughing against the thick curtain of dust and cigarette smoke, and his gaze fell to the matted brown felt of the tabletop.

“Just keep an eye on your suits, kid,” Sandy said gravely to Aziraphale, chuckling as he whispered something into another man’s ear.

“Deuces and queens wild,” the dealer called.

And thus Aziraphale was swiftly ushered into the game as he dropped silver coins onto the table. Placing a card down, he swept up another, biting his lip as a Royal Flush gazed up at him merrily from behind his palms; he won. “Beginner’s luck?” he chuckled, buffing his nails against his lapel absentmindedly.

Three games and two additional Flushes later, Aziraphale saw Crowley reappear by the bar, smoothly settling atop a stool beside a pale, eager young man. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Crowley motioned for drinks, leaning forward and--

“What’ll it be?” the dealer broke in, tapping the deck against the tabletop for emphasis. “How many cards?”

“Mm? Oh, I’ll stay, thank you.” Aziraphale nodded emphatically, allowing his gaze to stray up from his hands once more. Crowley had moved closer to the young man, subtly gesturing as he whispered in his ear; Aziraphale felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. The young man smiled, slowly arching a brow as he nodded and finished his drink with a quick turn of his wrist; he then walked away.

An unspoken acknowledgement seemed to hang upon the air.

“Someone you know?” a man to the angel’s side asked with a smirk.

Aziraphale’s eyes fell back to his cards. “You’re referring to the boy? No, I...” He cleared his throat. “Do you know him?”

“Sure. That’s just little Bill. Sees to the horses, you know,” he said with a scowl, tossing his cards onto the table. Turing to Aziraphale, he added, “Smug bastard owes me five dollars.”

“Does he?” Aziraphale nodded, hoping to appear sympathetic. His hands shook as he puzzled over the game. Crowley’s transaction had seemed such a casual thing, so quick. One might even be compelled to call it dour. With a shudder, he wondered vaguely whether they all concluded as such in this day and age, or if it was simply a trait of the frontier.

“Having fun, angel?”

Aziraphale straightened, dropping his cards to the table.

Crowley arched a brow, smiling slowly. “I must say, you seem to be acclimating yourself rather well.”

“Nonsense!” Aziraphale croaked, pulling a small purse from his pocket. “I was merely...” he paused with a frown, shaking the purse lightly as he glanced through it, and finally set a few coins onto the table. “Passing the time,” he finished, glancing up without meeting Crowley’s eye.

“And you’re up by a few hands, I see.”

“Oh?” The angel smiled pleasantly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Crowley shook his head. “Of course.”

Aziraphale sighed, pretending not to notice the angered stares that were reaching him from across the table. He spread his cards before him. “Oh dear! That appears to be another -- er -- Royal Flush, I believe?”

There were groans and gruff oaths, tired strains of laughter and the metallic clink of a pistol being cocked. Cards were thrown down.

The player piano was silent.

“I don’t believe it,” Sandy growled from across the table, pushing back in his chair.

Aziraphale arched a brow, standing, and paid no attention to him. “Well, what happened?” he ventured, whispering against Crowley’s ear.

“Nothing.”

“Just you wait,” fumed Sandy’s voice again.

Aziraphale ignored him, not entirely without aspirations of mischief in mind. “What did he say?”

Crowley shrugged.

“I see.” The angel nodded, dashing his fingertips over the table in thought. “And would that involve--”

“He’s going to think about it.”

“Naturally.” Aziraphale reached forward, swiftly pulling the pool of coins towards him, though he stopped as he felt a firm grip settle against his wrist. He looked up. “Yes?”

“I said... _wait_.” Sandy glared at him, his breath heavy.

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Of course, my dear, though I’m not entirely sure of what the problem is. In fact--”

“I thought you said that you’d never played before.”

“Oh well, I...”

“You were cheating,” Sandy replied, dropping the angel’s wrist and lowering his hand to his holster. “I knew that there was something funny about you. I always know.”

Aziraphale swallowed roughly, struggling to remain civil. “I say--”

“Now just wait a moment,” Crowley broke in. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

“Don’t see what the problem is?” Sandy spit in a brown streak to the floor. “This doesn’t concern you, pal.”

Crowley’s eyes were wide, flashing lightly from behind his tinted glasses as he looked up from the trace of spittle that lay speckled across his boots. With a low hiss, he sprang forward, throwing Sandy down to the floor as the remaining figures closed in around them.

Aziraphale watched as the brawl soon drew in nearly every occupant of the saloon. Shots were fired, chairs were smashed into various splinters of rush and rubble, and tables were overturned. The gritty faces of several bar-side mirrors were smashed.

Someone deep within the rabble seemed to be weeping.

“Oh _dear_ ,” Aziraphale whispered, wholly appalled. Halfway-berating himself for his worry, he craned his neck, standing on his tip-toes as he tried to spot Crowley through the encroaching cloud of dust and profanity.

Indeed, there was no sign of him at all.

Aziraphale stepped forward, setting his hands to his hips, though he retreated as a pair of men fell before him. Faces red, they panted and grappled for each other’s throats.

“Crowley?” he called lightly, tugging uncomfortably upon the knot of silk at his collar.

He then heard a darkly smooth string of laughter, a sound that was almost a hiss.

“Er,” Aziraphale faltered, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I beg your pardon?”

“Looking for this?” Crowley suddenly stood beside him, impressively unruffled but for the slant of his glasses. He straightened them, opening his mouth with solemn pride as he held Aziraphale’s purse of winnings aloft.

“Oh!” Aziraphale cried. “You ought not to bother with such trivialities.” He steadied his hands, smoothing his shirtfront.

“No?” Crowley chimed, shaking his head. “But of course you’re correct. This is all rather crude, though if you really must know, I was just able to rid myself of a crick in the neck that had settled in, oh, about twenty years ago.”

“I see,” Aziraphale sighed, abruptly pushing the purse into his pocket. “Really, my dear. Don’t let’s--” he broke off, his eyes wide as he watched the crowd break apart.

Across the room, Sandy began to cry out, ripping at his hair and pulling upon the soiled folds of his clothes. His dark eyes were manic and tear-streaked as he fell against the bar, shattering glass and writhing in what perhaps was a mixture of horror, contempt, and certain agony.

Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale raised his fingertips to cover his mouth. He glanced to the side, his brow knit. “My word, you _didn’t_.”

“Oh, no,” Crowley drawled, rubbing his hands together as one does after a job well-done. “No. I merely made an idle suggestion to him regarding scorpions. He seems to have pushed it a step further with the distinct belief that they’re currently crawling beneath his drawers.”

“Ah.”

“I must say, though... he’s taken to the idea like a duck takes to... to--”

“ _Water!_ ” was Sandy’s pointedly tortured, though inadvertent reply; it was quickly followed by the trampling of boots and a splash of the trough outside.

“Uncanny,” Aziraphale offered, moving towards Crowley as they left the saloon.

“Quite,” Crowley said lightly.

“Well.” Aziraphale glanced down the darkening street, then to Crowley. “Is that all, then?”

“Mm.”

Aziraphale frowned, reaching forward to straighten Crowley’s collar, and lightly brushed the dust from his shoulders. “Then where will you... oh. Back to sleep, I suppose?” he asked at last.

“Er, well. I thought we might go to...” Crowley trailed off, grimacing. He cleared his throat. “Stratford-upon-Avon.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Look, if you’re not interested, just say so. I only mentioned it because--”

“Of _course_ I’m interested, my dear. It’s only that...”

“Mm?”

“Well,” Aziraphale began with a smile, “you rather piqued my curiosity with your mention of bats.”

“Oh?”

“It’s said that thousands stream out of the caves at sundown. Quite the spectacle, I would imagine. They apparently use some sort of extra-sensory perception in order to seek out insects.” Aziraphale’s eyes were wide with twined threads of awe and repulsion. “ _To eat_ , you know.”

“Yes,” Crowley said, nodding slowly. “Yes, I see.”

 

*    *    *

Upon waking the following morning, no less than six illustrious citizens of Silver City were overtaken by grand notions of going into the rare book business and, in the true spirit of entrepreneurialism, five were found dead of gunshot wounds later that afternoon.


End file.
